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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642227">For Yonder Breaks (A New and Glorious Morn)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn'>englandwouldfalljohn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman &amp; Terry Pratchett</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Chapter 1 is Rated G, Christmas, Christmas Decorations, Christmas Fluff, Christmas Smut, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Love Confessions, M/M, Pining, Smut in Chapter 2 Only, The tree isn’t the only pine in the room, soft smut</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 19:16:11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,393</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27642227</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/englandwouldfalljohn/pseuds/englandwouldfalljohn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The first Christmas season following the not quite end of the world, Crowley lazes about the bookshop, watching Aziraphale trim his tree. When particular items begin to catch his eye, he realizes there might be more of him in Aziraphale’s heart than he had dared to hope. </p><p>//Chapter 1 is rated G, and is an entire story. Chapter 2 is a soft smut epilogue and can be skipped if you prefer to keep it SFW.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale &amp; Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>72</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Both the prompt and several of the key ornaments in this fic are the brainchildren of <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/EchoSilverWolf/pseuds/EchoSilverWolf"> EchoSilverWolf </a>. Thank you, Echo, for allowing me to write this!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The weather outside was frightful. It was the first evening of December following the Armageddon that never was, and a caterwauling wind blew that miserable sleety type of snow hard against the ancient window panes. Ok, perhaps they weren’t actually ancient… but they were <em> old </em>, and let more than the occasional draft into the bookshop. Crowley sprawled, all limbs and angles, before a fire that roared unadvisedly high for being in a room full of dusty tomes. It was a wonder anyone made it past the entryway without leaving a trail of footprints behind, for all the mind Aziraphale paid to tidiness. </p>
<p>At the moment, the angel was crash-banging about in the centre of the large room, maintaining his precarious balance on a step-ladder, in an effort to hang holly garlands from the enormous fir tree he’d had delivered that afternoon. It was nonsense, in Crowley’s opinion. It wasn’t as though either of them subscribed to all the 25th of December claptrap. Just an excuse for day-drinking and materialistic contrivances if you asked him. Although, when he thought of it that way, perhaps there was something to the holiday. </p>
<p>‘Put on some music, will you, Crowley?’ Aziraphale called, just before tumbling down onto a pile of boxes. ‘Damn!’</p>
<p>‘Now, now, angel. Is that any way to usher in the season?’ Crowley teased, flipping through a stack of LPs. ‘There’s a stunning lack of bebop in this collection, you know.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, well,’ Aziraphale smirked, ‘I suppose something along the lines of Bing Crosby will just have to do.’ He began to sing along as White Christmas crooned out of grumpy old speakers. Satan himself, Aziraphale was a terrible singer. </p>
<p>Crowley buried the perennial pain of his fondness in a freshly manifested mug of cocoa. By the time the wispy remainder of whipped cream skated along the bottom of the cup, he had scolded his heart into submission. He swiveled his legs over the arm of the chair to watch Aziraphale hang baubles on the lower branches of the tree. Ugly ones. Bloody hell, was that—</p>
<p>Being wiggled onto a branch just above eye level was a glittering red beveled monstrosity of a New York City Christmas ornament. Crowley had popped into the city that never slept one October long ago, intending to create a little Halloween mischief. When he strolled onto Wall Street that morning, however, everything was going far more wrong than anything he could have cooked up. His location being marked, Hell naturally awarded him credit for the crash. To assuage his guilt, he wandered in and out of tourist shops, spending money wherever he could justify it. When he’d laid eyes on one terribly gaudy item in particular, he couldn’t help but make the purchase. He expected it to end up in a bin. Why, of all things, would Aziraphale hang...</p>
<p>‘The apple from ‘29? Have you really still got that?’</p>
<p>‘You crashed an entire stock market and still had time to pick me up a souvenir!’ Aziraphale replied cheerfully. </p>
<p>‘I’ll have you know, the stock market was like that when I found it. And that-’ Crowley pointed, eyebrows raised-‘was a joke, angel.’</p>
<p>‘It was a gift. I’m hanging it. Just as long as I don’t eat it,’ he added, glancing slyly over his shoulder, ‘I’m certain I’ll be alright.’</p>
<p>Crowley chuckled, throwing his hands up in surrender. His foot tapped the air to God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen, and his mind began to wander back in time. There were so many missed seasons, so much time lost between them. Aziraphale had never seemed to notice, but those ages in between had torn at Crowley’s heart with each passing year. If only he had found the courage earlier, when things were simpler between Heaven and Hell. But then, they times never seem simple when you’re in them, he reflected. That was the trouble with linear time: it was always the modern era. Crowley thought of rows in parks and gloomy plays. He thought of clashes of armour. He thought of oysters, terrible wine, wandering home drunk and alone...</p>
<p>‘Remember the first Christmas party, angel? Year 336, wasn’t it? Rome? I seem to remember sashes being all the rage that season.’</p>
<p>‘And you wore a laurel crown. Clashed terribly with your hair, if you don’t mind me saying so.’</p>
<p>‘I like to think I was the trendsetter for the holiday, green and red.,’ he sniffed.  ‘Say, how d’you remember that, anyway?’ He cocked his head to the side, trying to get a look at the preserved laurel wreath Aziraphale was hanging on a particularly protruding bough. His heart skipped a beat or two—he never paid it enough attention to be sure—and he let the question hang when no answer was forthcoming.</p>
<p>More decorations came out of the boxes and were hung with varying amounts of care. Glass rocking horses and golden orbs, paper snowflakes and an old wooden nutcracker.</p>
<p>‘Where did you get that one?’ Crowley sat up suddenly, nearly toppling off the armchair. </p>
<p>‘What? Oh, er, this?’ Aziraphale feigned. Hell below, he was an awful liar when he was put on the spot. </p>
<p>‘Yes, Aziraphale. The hand-painted nineteenth century wooden nutcracker that looks exactly like the one I purchased in St. Petersburg.’ Crowley hadn’t had business in Russia, strictly speaking. If he incited a bit of local aggression toward the Tsar over the recent famine while he was in the neighborhood, well, who was he to pass up such an easy target. It had only been his intention to take in the architecture and some art. </p>
<p>‘Oh, yes!’ Aziraphale clapped his hands together. ‘I remember when that lovely ballet debuted!’  ‘We were both working in the area—well no, I was in Moscow, but I had come up when I heard a new show was to be performed. It was wonderful, such a shame it took ages to catch on. You used to collect these,’ he said, gesturing to the nutcracker nestled in the tree branches, ‘do you remember?’</p>
<p>‘Yes, angel. I do remember. And I remember that when I unpacked my collection in Mayfair, one was missing.’</p>
<p>‘Missing? Oh. Oh dear. Well this one… yes, I recall now. This one came from a flea market. The big one, in… Bermondsey. Yes, that was it. Is it really old? I suppose I got quite the bargain then!’ Aziraphale turned away, blushing furiously enough for Crowley to see from his corner by the fire. He should be angry, but he was too busy fighting the odd sensation of hope building in his chest. </p>
<p>Crowley’s hand now clutched a goblet—he was thinking too much of 1892–nearly overflowing with mulled wine. He needed to think. Or at the very least, not to. Aziraphale was opening the next box, and pulling out a tedious array of bows. One looked oddly familiar. It couldn’t be. It just… couldn’t. </p>
<p>‘A-Aziraphale, d’you remember the Christmases at the Dowling house?’</p>
<p>‘Why, yes!’ He looked wistfully out the window. ‘Wasn’t the most pleasant child at eleven, but then again, who is. He was a dear sweet thing when he was younger though. I hope he turns out alright in the end.’</p>
<p>Crowley’s mind flooded with images of a giggling child, hands sticky with peppermint, tugging gently at his nanny’s hair. Loose strands fell to her shoulders as she carried the child across the grounds, the snow too deep for his small legs. They had played until both their noses were red, and Brother Francis had come to tell them it was time for tea.</p>
<p>‘You know,’ Crowley broached tentatively, ‘one year, they gave me a stunning personal vanity set, with scarlet silk ribbon to tie my hair. One day, I went out for a stroll in the grounds with Warlock, and somewhere along the way, one of the ribbons came loose. You never… you never found it, did you?’</p>
<p>‘Hm? A ribbon, you say?’ Aziraphale confirmed distractedly, tying a scarlet silk bow onto a high branch. ‘Can’t recall seeing such a thing in my gardens, no.’</p>
<p>‘Right. Angel-’</p>
<p>‘Now <em> this </em>!’ He raised a scrap of faded black muslin, shimmering at the edges with what could only be miraculous protection. ‘This was the cloth the midwife wrapped Jesus in, back in Bethlehem. I never caught her name, but she had glorious flaming auburn… hair. Crowley?’</p>
<p>‘Yes, angel.’ His voice barely raised above the notes straining from the outdated record player. </p>
<p>‘I could see her leg on one side. She must have torn a swaddling cloth from her own dress.’</p>
<p>‘Yes, angel.’</p>
<p>‘Crowley…’</p>
<p>Crowley turned toward the fire, tending it with an iron. He could hear the screams of labour, a pain for which he bore responsibility. They both had lived, had been healthy, safe. She was only a girl, really, and so much laid on her shoulders. It was the least he could do, when he heard what was coming. It was the least he could give. </p>
<p>When the memories faded, he was left shaking with the realizations of the moment. This couldn’t be happening. His best friend. His angel. Six thousand years of… of… </p>
<p>‘This one is my favourite.’</p>
<p>He steeled his expression and stood from his chair. Aziraphale was clutching a delicate white angel with a star in its hands, speaking softly to himself. </p>
<p>‘The night after I gave… in the sixties. There was a knock, and when I answered the door, it was there. No wrapping, no note. Just… there.’ He stroked the angel’s long red hair as though it were more than a piece of ceramic, ran a gentle fingertip along the curve of her golden halo. ‘It always felt so much of… oh Crowley… it feels so much of love.’</p>
<p>Crowley’s footsteps were muffled by the chords of Silent Night as he crossed to the centre of the shop. </p>
<p>‘Oh! It’s,’ Aziraphale gasped lightly, ‘it’s getting stronger!’</p>
<p>Crowley touched the hand holding the ornament, failing to find the courage to look up. </p>
<p>‘Aziraphale…’</p>
<p>‘C-Crowley?’</p>
<p>‘Angel.’</p>
<p>Crowley shut his eyes against his fear, desperately hoping the waves of love rolling through the air were not his alone; he didn’t think he would survive another minute if he wasn’t sure they felt the same. It hurt every cell in his body to pull away.</p>
<p>‘Aziraphale, I… have you kept these things because… I mean, do you…’</p>
<p>‘Yes, Crowley.’ </p>
<p>Harvest moon eyes opened to find trembling pink lips mouthing his name. Crowley dared to wrap his arms gingerly around Aziraphale’s waist, and was rewarded with warm hands sliding onto the sides of his face—and a small crash.</p>
<p>‘Noo. No, no, no, no.’ But there was nothing for it. Crowley knelt and collected the ceramic figure, now devoid of its beautiful gilt halo. ‘Angel, I’m… I’ll fix it, I’ll-’</p>
<p>‘Crowley, don’t,’ Aziraphale whispered, shaking his head. He took the little angel and began stroking the broken edges with a tender smile.</p>
<p>‘It fell.’</p>
<p>‘It’s alright, my dear.’ A warm, solid cheek pressed against his own, and a soft voice whispered in his ear, ‘So did I.’</p>
<p> </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>***Soft smut, RATED M***</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>They stood silent for several minutes, the sound of the sleet pelting the window blending with the staccato rhythm of Crowley’s heart. Maybe it was the wine, or maybe it was the heat from the fire, but soon he found they were swaying, ever so slightly, their bodies coming into incrementally closer contact. The breath against his face was hot, coming in quicker puffs than before.</p>
<p>‘You know, Crowley. If I am going to fall,’ Aziraphale’s voice came, dark and delicious, in his ear, ‘I’d like it to be for good reason. There are some features of this body I’m still yet to explore, and if you’d be so obliging…’</p>
<p>‘An-’ He began in too high a pitch. Crowley cleared his throat and tried again. ‘Angel, if you’re suggesting that we… fraternize… I think you’ll find the bedroom the best place to-’</p>
<p>‘Noo,’ Aziraphale purred. ‘I should think right here would do nicely. We have a fire, a lovely Persian rug. What more could we need?’</p>
<p>‘Well, for starters, if you’re thinking what I…’ </p>
<p>Aziraphale’s tongue licked languidly up his neck. </p>
<p>‘I, um… if you’re thinking what I think you’re… thinking, I- nnhhhh…’</p>
<p>Crowley gave up his attempt at logic as a not at all angelic tongue circled his earlobe. He probably didn’t have a point to make anyway. His jacket slid off his shoulders and was promptly joined on the floor by a bow tie and waistcoat. There were a few times throughout the years that he had made an effort, but this time it was more that his effort was making itself. The mingling scents of vanilla and honey suddenly filled his senses, and he knew Aziraphale was experiencing the same. </p>
<p>It was as though time was slowing for them, though that certainly couldn’t be true. Every release of a shirt button, every slide of a trouser leg against far too revealing denim, took a glorious age to end. Crowley had no idea how he’d ended up on his back, clad in nothing but a disbelieving smile, but he wasn’t arguing. Aziraphale’s mouth and deceptively strong hands covered more ground than Crowley could ever have imagined. Bites to his clavicle and moans in his ear, pinched nipples and grasped hips, the angel was absolutely everywhere… everywhere except—</p>
<p>‘Inside me, angel. I- ohhhh yesss,’ he hissed at a roll of Aziraphale’s hips down, long and steady against him. ‘I w-want you… insssside.’</p>
<p>The warm breeze of an indulgent miracle raised gooseflesh on Crowley’s skin as his endless legs were pulled to wrap hard around Aziraphale’s gorgeously soft waist. No words were needed as the angel’s slowly stuttering movements brought them perfectly together. With Crowley’s shaky exhale, they began to move in time with the stars. Inching their way across the carpet, which would be sure to leave welcome marks across Crowley’s shoulder blades, they found a rhythm all their own. </p>
<p>Minutes had become hours before cries of release could be heard spilling from the ancient windows onto the streets of Soho. Sweat prickled at Crowley’s chest, and he shivered with cold and relief. Dreaming quietly on his chest was his love, his friend, a sentinel of six thousand years. He let his eyes roam over the tree, where the apple was just catching the first rays of dawn.</p>
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